


Speak Up, I'm Losing Faith

by zenzop



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Angst, Explicit but not sexy, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Other, That's your problem, Unless it is to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenzop/pseuds/zenzop
Summary: "A revolutionary is a doomed man. He has no private interests, no affairs, sentiments, ties, property nor even a name of his own. His entire being is devoured by one purpose, one thought, one passion – the revolution. Heart and soul, not merely by word but by deed, he has severed every link with the social order and with the entire civilized world; with the laws, good manners, conventions, and morality of that world. He is its merciless enemy and continues to inhabit it with only one purpose – to destroy it."-Sergey NechayevThis is the most concerning quote I could've put in my summary.
Relationships: Anarcho-Communism/Communism (Centricide)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	Speak Up, I'm Losing Faith

**(Tw//discussions of violent death, death generally and depression, includes sexual content, no penetrative sex included)**

It started in the kitchen, yes? Just the two of them making dinner. What song was playing in the background when they asked him to spin them?

Did he leave the stove on?

“Is this alright?” Ancom said, pressing their forehead against his, fingers resting on his belt.

And he nodded, and he watched their hands move to undo the leather, the soft clinking of metal as the buckle came undone.

This did make sense, right? Because he didn’t usually get involved with people, not like this. Because Commie had slept with people before, he slept with people who weren't women before, but -

“Can I keep going?”

Another nod, before they leaned up to kiss him again, more chaste than the one that started this, before they moved to take off his jeans. He felt his back pressed against the wall of his bedroom - had anyone else seen the inside of this bedroom since he moved here? - as they pulled his pants down just enough to palm in between his thighs as his breathing got heavier, small gasps for air pouring out of his lungs.

Would it be strange to admit to himself that he was nervous about this for the first time in what seemed like decades? Something about this felt different. And, lord, he was trying to figure out if he was alright with that, but he wasn’t sure why. They’d been here with him since God knows when, knew each other since the meetings of The First Internationale. They were off in the Paris Commune while he was in England writing about it. They’d seen each other on the front lines of every major battle since the turn of the 20th century. If it wasn’t in the correspondence they shared while fighting for the Black and Red Army, it was in whispers from the other soldier at Stalingrad talking about the anarchists of The French Resistance. They both had flaws and failures they were both acutely aware of, mistakes that were scorched into the earth and that had put people in graves, and all of them floated around his head as they moved to take off his shirt.

But this was after all of that - after watching the people he swore to protect starving after the collapse of the USSR, after watching China allow American companies back into their borders, after watching socialist countries fall apart under embargoes and imperialism. He had died dozens of times and he knew he would have to die a dozen more, and he knew this was true for both of them.

The consequence of that was not trusting people anymore - _But what kind of communist can’t trust people?_ He asked himself on nights where he couldn’t sleep - but this was different. This was a unique situation.

He didn’t _know_ if he could trust this. That was even scarier. His mind could jump between being scared _of_ them and scared _for_ them and everything in between within seconds, caught up on hypotheticals for whatever future existed for them.

He went stiff, completely and totally rigid as they planted bruises into his neck. And they pulled back.

“Hey, baby, it’s just you and me here, alright? And I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

And, logically, Commie knew that, and he said, “I know that,” but he didn’t, and he didn’t take time to question himself on why.

“You don’t seem to like this,” they prodded, moving their had up to his waist to rest it on his hip as they tilted their head upwards, their noses almost pressed together as he felt their breath against his teeth.

He sighed out, and smiled.

“I’m sorry, I’m just -” and paused, “Collecting my thoughts.”

“Do you want me to stop?” They asked, “We could just sit in bed for a bit. Talk for a bit. See if you’re up for it later.”

He shook his head.

“No, no, keep going.”

He heard them laugh under their breath a bit, the air from their lungs warm against his face as their lips parted into a smile. And he was shaking again, his cold and calloused hands reaching out to their waist to steady himself, as theirs travelled downwards, underneath the waistband of their boxers, their eyes soft and focused on his face, analyzing his reaction, feeling him relax as their fingers curled around him as he tried to keep a moan from pouring out of his throat.

Blood pooled in a pit in his stomach as he tried to let himself be alright with this, his hands running up their back, tangling in their hair.

He looked down at them, panting, not caring much for how he looked in this moment. And they looked just how they always did to him, something in the gold of their eyes he always admired. More hopeful than him, more revolutionary than he ever could be. Something that made him think they knew more than him, knew some kind of secret he didn't.

Their voice slipped out in a whisper.

"Fuck, you're so hard for me already."

And he kissed them, harder this time, more wanting this time, wrapping his hand around his neck and pressing his tongue into their mouth. He trusted them. He thought of their eyes and he decided he trusted them. He told himself that he did, turning the thought over and over in his mind until he believed it.

He felt himself holding back tears.

This all felt like an apology. _I'm sorry everything fell apart like it did. I'm sorry the future wasn't what we expected it to be by now. I'm sorry this is so hard and I'm sorry for not trying harder. I'm sorry the world isn't what we hoped it would look like, and I'm sorry I don't know what to do about it. I'm sorry for being too scared to try and create it again._

But they just pulled back and looked at him, and they smiled, and kept moving their hand. Did they know? How much he had to apologize for? How the list wouldn't stop if he started?

Ancom just kept whispering to him instead.

"Hey, baby, relax, okay? Look at me?" And he did, and they slowed down, moving their hand to the hair that lined the bottom half of his abdomen, as they stared into him, "It's just us, okay? And we don't have to do this."

"Please keep going." It was begging. Pleading them to not make him think about it. Pleading them to not stop moving before the thoughts crammed into his head again.

"I'm not going to keep going if it makes you uncomfortable like this," they responded, "not if you don't like this. Not if you're hiding something."

"I'm not, I'm not, you can keep going."

"Not like this."

He didn't know that he could still cry in front of other people. He thought he killed the part of himself that could. And he crumpled, horrified with himself that he'd let himself slip like this, them following him to the floor.

"Tell me I'm doing okay," he murmured, "I know it's not enough, but tell me this is okay."

Ancom looked at him, horrified and scared and confused. God, he felt awful for making them look at him like that.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not doing enough, not with anything. Christ, I - sit at home, I go to work, I drink, it's not enough," "I didn't do enough. Nothing I built lasted. I wasn't organized enough, or well enough, and I don't want to think about it. Not with you here. You believe in everything I should. You're everything I should be. You - are bold, and you trust people, and you help them and you make sure people are safe. I'm scared, Ancom. I'm scared. And I don't know whether I'll ever get to see the place we were hoping for. Not me. I don't deserve it. I'm not enough for it. I did the math wrong somewhere, and all I can see is death and wars and more of this. The bleeding doesn't stop."

And he's shaking again, holding himself together, and they hold his face like he's seen something about himself that he can't.

"I'm not soft enough, I'm not generous enough, I'm not like you. Why do you want to do this with me? After I've hurt you so many times? After I haven't been enough?"

He used to be strong. He used to care about things. He was there - he was at the front of all of it, he was supposed to care. He remembered a version of himself that was passionate and kind and it was a version of him that only existed through a thick layer of fog in his mind.

"I want to see how beautiful the world can be. I want you to be there with me. I'm sorry for not caring enough before."

They paused.

“Christ, Commie, none of this happened because you didn’t care enough. We aren’t where we are because you stopped caring.”

“I - I didn’t do enough to stop everything, I wanted things to go different, I promise I didn’t want everything to go like this. Maybe I could’ve - had a conversation, or put in extra time at a meeting, or not let myself get dragged along into -”

“You don’t make history on your own.”

He paused.

“I don’t know how many more times I can die. I know how many more times I can see your body. I don’t want to see you die again.”

“Commie -”

“No, I don’t want to see you die again. I want to build the future again with you. I want you to be there to build it. I keep seeing you dead. I never want to have to see that again.”

He buried his mouth in his hand, an attempt to suture his jaw shut, keep himself tucked away, smaller than the enormity of his sadness was. And they pushed forward, resting between his legs, their head in his chest and his hand moving into their hair as he cradled them.

“There will be a time when we won’t,” they muttered, “there’s a time when none of this is sustainable, and when radical change happens. I don’t know what it will look like, but we’ll be there. We’ve been here for a hundred years and we’ll be here for longer than that. The revolution is there. And if they ask us why we didn’t fight back, if we fail and we die, I want our voices to reverb through the universe to say that we did, we did try, and I want us to mean it.”

They hooked their neck over his shoulder as their voice got low again. He felt himself breathe out.

“Just lie in bed with me for a while and we can figure out everything later, alright?” They smiled, "Pick me up and take me to bed with you?"

And he did. And they curled their body into his and stayed there, a look on their face as they looked up from his chest, pulled their hoodie off and threw their pants away in a corner somewhere.

“Would you want to borrow a shirt?”

“Yes, please.”

They folded themselves back into his bed. Their skin was soft, and they were warm, and they relaxed around him, like this was something he could trust, something that wouldn’t leave. The moonlight from outside poured through his curtains. They brushed away the last of his tears. They whispered kindnesses to each other in the silence, told stupid jokes, and for the first time in a while, he fell asleep smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> "haha I'm just gonna write one fanfic for this place it won't turn into anything and I certainly won't write anything explicit" clown-type behaviour
> 
> The writing experience is "Imma project so hard onto these two y'all won't fucking know what hit 'em."
> 
> I'm currently reading Blessed is the Flame - It's been very, uh, *inspirational.* 
> 
> Might make a part two with a more coherent ending, but don't expect anything from me.


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